


complicated words

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Blood Mage no Seisen | Dragon Age: Dawn of the Seeker, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has always had the heart of a true Seeker, with all the questions of one. A collection of short fics inspired by a list of complicated words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. brontide (cassandra/vivienne)

> _**Brontide** \- The low rumbling of distant thunder._

        A mage Divine. Whispers ebb and flow, each more curious than the last. _Is it possible to seat a mage on the Sunburst Throne? Would the Maker take offense?_

        It is not possible to know the Maker’s will, but this much is known for certain: the crown suits her well. Ice and static crackle from Vivienne’s fingertips, energy spun into being from equal parts will and mastery of the gift that sings in her blood. Magic was made to serve, and she bends under her grasp as a smith hammers steel into shape. Her sword, singing of the Fade with each expert stroke, cuts just as deep as the bare blade offered in the Seeker’s hands.

        History is made by the victorious, and Divine Victoria wields the pen with as much grace and force as a seasoned duelist. A tap, flat of the blade heavy on each shoulder, marks Cassandra’s place in the books that will come.

        They will say many things about the first mage Divine, half of them blatant lies and half of them partial truths, and none of them will paint a picture of the woman she knows well and not at all. But they will say this: they never saw her coming.

_( Oh, they should have. )_

        They will hear the echoes of her actions, and it sounds not unlike a reckoning. The thunder rumbles low, a rolling drumbeat that thrums in the veins and sweeps after the flash of lightning that arcs across the sky. Fitting, Cassandra thinks as she raises her head once more, for it to rain on this day of days.

        Water sheets down, but not a single drop blemishes the hem of the Divine’s white robes.  _( Magic was made to serve, goes the whisper, and it will serve her. )_

        They never saw her coming, but they’ll hear her roar now. She’ll make certain of it.


	2. gymnophoria (cassandra/f!hawke)

> _**Gymnophoria** \- The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you._

       The word subtle could be used to describe Cassandra in the same manner that a light wind would be used to describe a hurricane. She commits herself wholly to causes, leaping in with both feet and shield at the ready. Action defines her as surely as faith does, painting lines with harsh strokes and harsher words. Yet, she finds herself following the Champion from across the training yard, taking great care with the book—some manner of treatise on Chantry relations that seemed relevant before Hawke showed up—in her hands to maintain the air of discreet observation.

       Many things seemed to matter a lot more before the Champion showed up, but she’ll never admit to that. Especially not to Varric.

       Still, she has eyes, and currently those hazel eyes are fixated on the lines of the woman’s body, muscles sliding elegantly under a thin shirt that still leaves something to the imagination. Imagination fills in the outlines, teeth pulling at her lip to keep her mouth from hanging uselessly. The Champion is lithe, as to be expected from a rogue that steps lightly across the battlefield, and graceful in ways Cassandra can only dream of being.

       The book quite forgotten in her lap, her mind steps its way across the stones laid by the display to suggest the possibility of tracing a finger down past the laced tunic. She blinks, and nearly draws blood at the thought of drawing laces and belts from hooks and loops, and the sound those daggers might make when hitting the floor in haste.

       Hawke spins mid-way through a move and catches her gaze, holding it for long enough to deepen the blush across Cassandra’s cheeks several shades, and _winks_. Subtlety, it seems, has eluded the Seeker’s grasp once more.


End file.
